He walked into the apartment, a small bag of groceries with him.
Walked over to the counter as he set them down, double checking the locks from afar as he turned to put the two candy bars on top of the fridge.
Here's the thing.
Took out a few soup cans as he put the vegetables away, leaving the small bottle of asprin on the table.
Ignoring the slight pain still lingering in his head.
It could be worse.
Pours the cans into the pot, as he sets the stove on low.
It might be stupid, but it's the only thing that's keeping him going at the moment.
Head starts up again.
"You want to put it in?" He asks softly.
Rebecca nods, as he carries her so she can put in the salt.
"Don't burn yourself."
"I'm careful, Buh-Buh."
Opens the notebook to the blue tab, writing it down alongside the last one.
It could be worse. It could be 10 months ago, when eveything came down.
Gets every detail. Even what color her dress is (yellow, Mom got it for her for her graduation, you had just bought a suit for homecoming-)
Pain happened threefold, gripping the table. Doesn't know why.
Pauses, trying to even his breath.
Pinches the bridge of his nose as he turns to the black mark, writing "Homecoming" with a question mark beside it.
Smells the soup, turning off the heat before it burns.
Could be 10 months ago.
Closes his eyes, trying not to think about it too much. Taking in the scent of the food.
It's a fine line between reminders & going too far in.
Could be 10 months ago.
....Could be 20 months ago.
Doesn't need it to be.
Tried some, blowing on it gently.
("Needs pepper." She said.)
Needs pepper.
...."Dammit."
Needs to get, pepper.
Pours it into the bowl as he sits quietly.
Daily routine has been this: Wake up, exercise. Monitor for any tails.
Write down memories, research any of them, eat, sleep, repeat.
Blows.
The nightmares have eased up. For now, at least.
(Could be a year ago.)
Remembers nearly throwing up every night, missions coming at speeds where even looking out the damn window triggered something.
Sips.
It's just been dreams lately.
Thanks God no one lives in the building much, as he knows he shouts. Can feel it afterward.
The dreams are milder. Smaller mercies he doesn't feel deserves anyway, mostly of Brooklyn.
("Buh-buh, is Steve coming over? I wanna show him my drawing.")
Mostly of Becca. He's looked her up. ....Tells himself he should remain dead to her. No matter how much that hurts.
Better that then let her know what he's become.
He remembers. ....Everything.
Mostly, everything.
The missions came back first, 2 years ago. Felt like a bomb without a button, set off by anything & everything. Sound, taste, smell; words, sentences, a damn street sign.
Remembers it as a multi-layered blur where he barely slept, nightmares becoming a daily thing. Has about 7 notebooks of all of them. Names, faces, & locations.
...They're in the backpack too.
War came back about 10 months ago. Zola, all of it. Before 10 months ago, it was 20.
It's become a game of, "At least it isn't" ever since then. A comparison meter for his punishments. Today is better than yesterday.
Last week was better than 2 months ago.
Finishes the soup, rinsing it out in the sink.
As long as it keeps him sane.
Writes a little bit more, some pieces floating off in the distance.
Can feel there's something else causing the headache but....He doesn't want to over do it.
Closes the notebook as he changes, walking over the single mattress and one blanket.
A part of him doesn't want to sleep. Living in perpetual fear of what might come next.
Pulls the blanket over him.
But it's better than 10 months ago. & that's all he's got now.